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Poem Quotes

“Sour Milk You can't make it turn sweet again. Once it was an innocent color like the flowers of wild strawberries, and its texture was simple would pass through a clean cheesecloth, its taste was fresh. And now with nothing more guilty that the passage of time to chide it with, the same substance has turned sour and lumpy. The sour milk makes interesting & delicious doughs, can be carried to a further state of bacterial action to create new foods, can in its own right be considered complicated and more interesting in texture to one who studies it closely, like a map of the world. But to most of us: it is spoiled. Sour. We throw it out, down the drain-not in the backyard- careful not to spill any because the smell is strong. A good cook would be shocked with the waste. But we do not live in a world of good cooks. I am the milk. Time passes. You cannot make it turn sweet again. I sit guiltily on the refrigerator shelf trembling with hope for a cook who dreams of waffles, biscuits, dumplings and other delicious breads fearing the modern housewife who will lift me off the shelf and with one deft twist of a wrist... you know the rest. You are the milk. When it is your turn remember, there is nothing more than the passage of time we can chide you with.”

Poem
Book:Emerald Ice: Selected Poems 1962-1987
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“رویا با امیدی گرم و شادی بخش با نگاهی مست و رؤیایی دخترک افسانه می خواند نیمه شب در کنج تنهایی: بی گمان روزی ز راهی دور می رسد شهزاده ای مغرور می خورد بر سنگفرش کوچه های شهر ضربه ی سم ستور بادپیمایش می درخشد شعله خورشید بر فراز تاج زیبایش تار و پود جامه اش از زر سینه اش پنهان به زیر رشته هایی از در و گوهر می کشاند هر زمان همراه خود سویی باد … پرهای کلاهش را یا بر آن پیشانی روشن حلقه موی سیاهش را مردمان در گوش هم آهسته می گویند « آه . . . او با این غرور و شوکت و نیرو» « در جهان یکتاست» « بی گمان شهزاده ای والاست» دختران سر می کشند از پشت روزن ها گونه هاشان آتشین از شرم این دیدار سینه ها لرزان و پرغوغا در طپش از شوق یک پندار « شاید او خواهان من باشد.» لیک گویی دیده ی شهزاده ی زیبا دیده ی مشتاق آنان را نمی بیند او از این گلزار عطرآگین برگ سبزی هم نمی چیند همچنان آرام و بی تشویش می رود شادان به راه خویش می خورد بر سنگفرش کوچه های شهر ضربه سم ستور بادپیمایش مقصد او خانه دلدار زیبایش مردمان از یکدیگر آهسته می پرسند «کیست پس این دختر خوشبخت؟» ناگهان در خانه می پیچد صدای در سوی در گویی ز شادی می گشایم پر اوست . . . آری . . . اوست « آه، ای شهزاده ، ای محبوب رؤیایی نیمه شب ها خواب می دیدم که می آیی.» زیر لب چون کودکی آهسته می خندد با نگاهی گرم و شوق آلود بر نگاهم راه می بندد « ای دو چشمانت رهی روشن بسوی شهر زیبایی ای نگاهت باده ای در جام مینایی آه ، بشتاب ای لبت همرنگ خون لاله ی خوشرنگ صحرایی ره بسی دور است لیک در پایان این ره . . . قصر پر نور است.» می نهم پا بر رکاب مرکبش خاموش می خزم در سایه ی آن سینه و آغوش می شوم مدهوش. باز هم آرام و بی تشویش می خورد بر سنگفرش کوچه های شهر ضربه سم ستور باد پیمایش می درخشد شعله ی خورشید برفراز تاج زیبایش. می کشم همراه او زین شهر غمگین رخت مردمان با دیده ی حیران زیر لب آهسته می گویند «دختر خوشبخت ! . . .»”

Poem
Author:Forough Farrokhzad
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“There's an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem that's been rumbling around inside me ever since I first read it, and part of it goes: 'Blown from the dark hill hither to my door/ Three flakes, then four/ Arrive, then many more.' You can count the first three flakes, and the fourth. Then language fails, and you have to settle in and try to survive the blizzard”

PoemSnowJohn GreenBlizzardTurtles All The Way DownEdna St Vincent MillaySnow Flake
Book:Turtles All the Way Down
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“ای آدمها! ای آدمها که بر ساحل نشسته، شاد و خندانید! یک نفر در آب دارد می سپارد جان یک نفر دارد که دست و پای دائم می زند روی این دریای تند و تیره و سنگین که می دانید آن زمان که مست هستید از خیال دست یا بیدن به دشمن آن زمان که پیش خود بیهوده پندارید که گرفتستید دست ناتوانی را تا توانایی بهتر را پدید آرید آن زمان که تنگ می بندید بر کمرهاتان کمربند در چه هنگامی بگویم من؟ یک نفر در آب دارد می کند بیهوده جان، قربان *** آی آدمها! که بر ساحل بساط دلگشا دارید نان به سفره، جامه تان برتن یک نفر در آب می خواند شما را موج سنگین را به دست خسته می کوبد باز می دارد دهان با چشم از وحشت دریده سایه هاتان را ز راه دور دیده آب را بلعیده در گود کبود و هر زمان، بی تابیش افزون می کند زین آبها بیرون گاه سر، گه پا آی آدمها! او ز راه مرگ، این کهنه جهان را باز می پاید میزند فریاد و امید کمک دارد آی آدمها که روی ساحل آدرام، در کار تماشایید! *** موج می کوبد به روی ساحل خاموش پخش می گردد چنان مستی به جای افتاده، بس مدهوش می رود نعره زنان؛ وین بانگ باز از دور می آید: "آی آدمها!" و صدای باد هر دم دلگزاتر در صدای باد بانگ او رهاتر از میان آبهای دور و نزدیک باز در گوش این نداها: "آی آدمها!"...”

Poem
Author:Nima Yushij
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“Just Let them. If they want to choose something or someone over you, LET THEM. If they want to go weeks without talking to you, LET THEM. If they are okay with never seeing you, LET THEM. If they are okay with always putting themselves first, LET THEM. If they are showing you who they are and not what you perceived them to be, LET THEM. If they want to follow the crowd, LET THEM. If they want to judge or misunderstand you, LET THEM. If they act like they can live without you, LET THEM. If they want to walk out of your life and leave, hold the door open, AND LET THEM. Let them lose you. You were never theirs, because you were always your own. So let them.”

Poem
Author:Cassie Phillips
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“DAISIES It is possible, I suppose that sometime we will learn everything there is to learn: what the world is, for example, and what it means. I think this as I am crossing from one field to another, in summer, and the mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either knows enough already or knows enough to be perfectly content not knowing. Song being born of quest he knows this: he must turn silent were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display the small suns of their center piece, their -- if you don't mind my saying so -- their hearts. Of course I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know? But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given, to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly; for example -- I think this as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch -- the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the daisies for the field.”

Poem
Book:Why I Wake Early
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“داروگ خشک آمد کشتگاه ِ من در جوار ِ کشت ِ همسايه . گرچه می‌گويند : « می‌گريند روی ِ ساحل ِ نزديک سوکواران در ميان ِ سوکواران . » قاصد ِ روزان ِ ابری ، داروگ ! [1] کی می‌رسد باران ؟ بر بساطی که بساطی نيست ، در درون ِ کومه‌ی ِ تاريک ِ من که ذرّه‌ای با آن نشاطی نيست و جدار ِ دنده‌های ِ نی به ديوار ِ اتاقم دارد از خشکيش می‌ترکد - چون دل ِ ياران که در هجران ِ ياران – قاصد ِ روزان ِ ابری ، داروگ ! کی می‌رسد باران ؟”

Poem
Author:Nima Yushij
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“There are so many things to say; so many things that can't really be said. So much has happened; so little has changed. We have so many words prepared; so many words are too hard to actually say. A few days have passed; this pain has been here for years. We don't know where to go from here; our future has always been in our minds. Moments of peace with those who constantly argue; fights with those that usually bring peace. There are so many things to say; so many things that can't really be said.”

LifePoemPoetic
Author:Alysha Speer
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“My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride, From every mountainside Let freedom ring! My native country, thee, Land of the noble free, Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills; My heart with rapture thrills, Like that above. Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom's song; Let mortal tongues awake; Let all that breathe partake; Let rocks their silence break, The sound prolong. Our father's God to Thee, Author of liberty, To Thee we sing. Long may our land be bright, With freedom's holy light, Protect us by Thy might, Great God our King.”

InspirationalSongPoemPatriotic
Author:Samuel Francis Smith
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“Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente, y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca. Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca. . Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía. Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma, y te pareces a la palabra melancolía. . Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante. Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo. Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza: Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo. . Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo. Eres como la noche, callada y constelada. Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo. . Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente. Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto. Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan. Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.”

LoveLifePoem
Book:Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
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“غزل چون سنگ ها صداي مرا گوش مي كني سنگي و ناشنيده فراموش مي كني رگبار نوبهاري و خواب دريچه را از ضربه هاي وسوسه مغشوش مي كني دست مرا كه ساقه سبز نوازش است با برگ هاي مرده همآغوش مي كني گمراه تر ز روح شرابي و ديده را در شعله مي نشاني و مدهوش مي كني اي ماهي طلائي مرداب خون من خوش باد مستيت كه مرا نوش مي كني تو دره بنفش غروبي كه روز را بر سينه مي فشاري و خاموش مي كني در سايه ها فروغ تو بنشست و رنگ باخت او را به سايه از چه سيه پوش مي كني ؟”

Poem
Author:Forough Farrokhzad
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“A Faint Music by Robert Hass Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, and the heroine has studied her face and its defects remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves has lost its novelty and not released them, and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, watching the others go about their days— likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming, and understood, therefore, why they had been, all their lives, in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. As in the story a friend told once about the time he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up on the girder like a child—the sun was going down and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing carefully, and drove home to an empty house. There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick with rage and grief. He knew more or less where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. “You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” “Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, “I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, and go to sleep. And he, he would play that scene once only, once and a half, and tell himself that he was going to carry it for a very long time and that there was nothing he could do but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark cracking and curling as the cold came up. It’s not the story though, not the friend leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” which is the part of stories one never quite believes. I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing”

GracePoemSinging
Book:Sun under Wood
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“THE POEMS OF OUR CLIMATE I Clear water in a brilliant bowl, Pink and white carnations. The light In the room more like a snowy air, Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow At the end of winter when afternoons return. Pink and white carnations - one desires So much more than that. The day itself Is simplified: a bowl of white, Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round, With nothing more than the carnations there. II Say even that this complete simplicity Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed The evilly compounded, vital I And made it fresh in a world of white, A world of clear water, brilliant-edged, Still one would want more, one would need more, More than a world of white and snowy scents. III There would still remain the never-resting mind, So that one would want to escape, come back To what had been so long composed. The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.”

Poem
Author:Wallace Stevens
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“Two houses, two homes, two kitchens, two phones, Two couches where I lay, two places that I stay, Moving, moving here and there, from Monday to Friday I'm everywhere, Don't get me wrong, it's not that bad But often times it makes me sad, I want to live that nuclear life, With a happy dad and his loving wife, A picket fence, a shaggy dog, A fireplace with a burning log, But it's not real, it's just a dream, I cannot cry or even scream, So here I sit with cat number three, Life would be easy if there were two of me.”

Poem
Author:Meghan Markle
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“At childhood’s end, the houses petered out into playing fields, the factory, allotments kept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men, the silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan, till you came at last to the edge of the woods. It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf. He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud in his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw, red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big ears he had! What big eyes he had! What teeth! In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me, sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink, my first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry. The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods, away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake, my stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes but got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night, breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem. I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, for what little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf? Then I slid from between his heavy matted paws and went in search of a living bird – white dove – which flew, straight, from my hands to his hope mouth. One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said, licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the back of the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books. Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head, warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood. But then I was young – and it took ten years in the woods to tell that a mushroom stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds are the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolf howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out, season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axe to a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmon to see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolf as he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones. I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up. Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all alone. Little Red-Cap”

Poem
Book:The World's Wife
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“They're both convinced that a sudden passion joined them. Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still. Since they'd never met before, they're sure that there'd been nothing between them. But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways-- perhaps they've passed by each other a million times? I want to ask them if they don't remember-- a moment face to face in some revolving door? perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd? a curt "wrong number" caught in the receiver? but I know the answer. No, they don't remember. They'd be amazed to hear that Chance has been toying with them now for years. Not quite ready yet to become their Destiny, it pushed them close, drove them apart, it barred their path, stifling a laugh, and then leaped aside. There were signs and signals, even if they couldn't read them yet. Perhaps three years ago or just last Tuesday a certain leaf fluttered from one shoulder to another? Something was dropped and then picked up. Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished into childhood's thicket? There were doorknobs and doorbells where one touch had covered another beforehand. Suitcases checked and standing side by side. One night, perhaps, the same dream, grown hazy by morning. Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.”

Poem
Book:View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems
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“Yawn... I believe that I love sleep much more than anybody I’ve ever met. I have the ability to sleep for 2 or 3 days and nights. I will go to bed at any given moment. I often confused my girlfriends this way— say it would be about onethirty in the afternoon: “well, I’m going to bed now, I’m going to sleep…” most of them wouldn’t mind, they would go to bed with me thinking I was hinting for sex but I would just turn my back and snore off. this, of course, could explain why so many of my girlfriends left me. as for doctors, they were never any help: “listen, I have this desire to go to bed and sleep, almost all the time. what is wrong with me?” “do you get enough exercise?” “yes…” “are you getting enough nourishment?” “yes…” they always handed me a prescription which I threw away between the office and the parking lot. it’s a curious malady because I can’t sleep between 6 p.m. and midnight. it must occur after midnight and when I arise it can never be before noon. and should the phone ring say at 10:30 a.m. I go into a mad rage don’t even ask who the caller is scream into the phone: “WHAT ARE YOU CALLING ME FOR AT THIS HOUR!” hang up… every person, I suppose, has their eccentricities but in an effort to be normal in the world’s eye they overcome them and therefore destroy their special calling. I’ve kept mine and do believe that they have lent generously to my existence. I think it’s the main reason I decided to become a writer: I can type anytime and sleep when I damn well please.”

PoemNormalBukowskiYawnEccentricities
Author:Charles Bukowski
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“THE ONE WHO STAYED You should have heard the old men cry, You should have heard the biddies When that sad stranger raised his flute And piped away the kiddies. Katy, Tommy, Meg and Bob Followed, skipped gaily, Red-haired Ruth, my brother Rob, And little crippled Bailey, John and Nils and Cousin Claire, Dancin', spinnin', turnin', 'Cross the hills to God knows where- They never came returnin'. 'Cross the hills to God knows where The piper pranced, a leadin' Each child in Hamlin Town but me, And I stayed home unheedin'. My papa says that I was blest For if that music found me, I'd be witch-cast like all the rest. This town grows old around me. I cannot say I did not hear That sound so haunting hollow- I heard, I heard, I heard it clear... I was afraid to follow.”

Poem
Book:Where the Sidewalk Ends
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“زندگي شايد يك خيابان درازست كه هر روز زني با زنبيلي از آن مي گذرد زندگي شايد ريسمانيست كه مردي باآن خود را از شاخه مي آويزد زندگي شايد طفليست كه از مدرسه بر مي گردد زندگي شايد افروختن سيگاري باشد ،در فاصله ي رخوتناك دو همآغوشي يا عبور گيج رهگذري باشد كه كلاه از سر بر مي دارد و به يك رهگذر ديگر با لبخندي بي معني مي گويد “صبح بخير” زندگي شايد آن لحظه ي مسدوديست كه نگاه من ،در ني ني چشمان تو خود را ويران مي سازد و در اين حسي است كه من آن را با ادراك ماه و با دريافت ظلمت خواهم آميخت”

Poem
Author:Forough Farrokhzad
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